4.30 on a perfect, late summer afternoon. The sun slants low and dazzling on scenes of suburban bliss. Flocks of kids - back at school this week - and their parents surge on every street corner and spill into the park. Crikey, this is it: the glowing, leisurely, privileged hour from which I've mourned my exclusion for the past 35 years. I breathe it in, amazed, and shiver in the sunshine; will myself to find a balance: linger and appreciate, but not wait dumbly for the axe to fall.